


Shadow Diaries

by ghostwulf



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-07-05 23:45:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15874155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostwulf/pseuds/ghostwulf
Summary: Brief moments from Season One told from the minds of Yami and Yuugi as they both experience the search for an identity.





	1. First Encounter

_First Encounter:_

He is aware.

Somehow, that comes as a surprise. Or perhaps the real surprise is that he cannot remember if this is the first time he has ever been aware or not. He was awake before he was aware—of that he is certain. He wonders how that is possible.

He casts his eyes around, seeing his surroundings for the first time. No, not the first time. He simply hadn’t been aware of them before. They had been inconsequential. Now they seem to matter. Reaching out a hand, he realizes he has never felt the walls before, the prickly stone texture, the patterns carved in the surface arranged in neat rows. Somehow, he knows the carvings are ancient, as is the stone, although he can’t explain how the knowledge comes. It is as new as the awareness. He wonders what has changed. The surrounding walls and staircases of yellow brick offer no response. They stretch on in every direction as far as he can see.

Anger. It sparks in the air. He cannot see it, but it tingles on his skin. Not his, but whose? It is everywhere, bleeding through the cracks in the brick.

He responds. He doesn’t even mean to—it simply happens. Some key snaps into place and unlocks the maze of staircases around him, unfolding them like petals. He steps into open air in a completely different place. There are people. He does not know them.

No, he does. The unmoving form at his feet is familiar.

Memories come to his mind. They are not his. Words come to his lips. They are also not his. He declares war on a dark figure in the doorway, announces a claim of revenge for the grandfather on the ground before him that is his and yet not his.

The figure laughs. Accepts his challenge. He is dressed in all blue, but it is shadowed in black. So is his smile. So are his eyes. This man is dangerous. Unstable. He is a shadow.

The shadow leads him to an arena. It is the first comfortable place. Here, he is at home. Here, he is in control. He knows the cards under his fingers, knows them in such an intimate way that he feels the connection resonate in his spine. He is certain he has never played this game before, and yet also certain that it is _his._ It belongs in the deep part of his soul where he imagines the staircases bloom.

The memories again. He knows the shadow before him. He can see a place full of people in blue and pink, a place called school. He has never been there, and yet it fills his mind. Words and numbers parade across the backs of his eyes. He knows the history of a world he has never seen. They are not real memories—he has never experienced them, never tasted them, never felt them. He simply knows.

Danger. The shadow has him cornered. Three enormous white dragons tower above him, eyes sharp, teeth gleaming. He cannot lose. That knowledge is woven into his very existence. It is the skeleton that everything else about him is layered over. He does not know what will happen if he loses this game, this battle; he only knows it is unfathomable. The very possibility chills his blood, pebbles his skin. He cannot lose. He cannot lose.

Someone is speaking to him. No, it is another memory. The grandfather that is not his spreads a set of cards across a glass surface. His smile is warm, without a shadow. He speaks of strategy, of heart, of victory. The language resonates in that same part of his soul as the game. That is his key. He realizes he is almost there—missing only one piece of five. He has one chance to win.

Fear. He hesitates. The fear is not his, just as the anger was not his, just as the memories are not his, just as the grandfather is not his. Does anything in this world actually belong to him? Only the game. Only victory. He reaches for the cards, for his one chance.

The fear presses on him. It emanates from his chest, blocking his connection to the cards. His eyes fall on a golden object dangling from his neck. That is the source. He knows, and yet he does not understand. The fear is contagious. It is becoming his, dotting his forehead in sweat, shivering through his outstretched fingers.

His fingers. They are streaked in black. Why? Again, knowledge comes without experience. The black lines are the remnants of friends. Once more, not his. But the memory calms the fear, sands it down to a smooth peace. He is free to win.

The connection to the cards surges back to life, fire in his blood, fire in his smile. He draws; the card is exactly what he needs. It always will be. This game is the one thing that belongs to _him._

His victory explodes before him in a brilliant solar flare, an outward display of the inner fire. It is glorious. It is everything.

The shadow is crushed. Defeated. Speechless. From the memories, he knows that the black shadow around this man did not always exist. Since he has claimed victory, he is free to banish the darkness. Any victory is power over the shadows. Perhaps that is why he cannot lose.

The man is set free. For him, defeat is his savior. Now the blue is outlined in white—the white of his dragons. Perhaps there is a connection deep in his soul as well.

* * *

It was different this time.

I sat in the dark of my room, clutching the puzzle between my hands, squeezing the life out of a lifeless object. Ever since I completed the object, things had happened that I couldn’t explain. Whenever I was in danger, I would have blank spaces of memory gap. People would get hurt. I would come to my senses in new places, new circumstances, and whatever—whoever—had been bothering me previously would be gone.

Or worse, they would be there, but their mind would be gone.

I had always felt a darkness inside of the puzzle, hiding like an animal in brush. I would never see it, but I would hear the rustling—the little clues that alerted me to something there. Hints of emotion, waves of uneasiness, and sometimes, a rush of power so strong it chilled me to the bone.

But this time was different. This time, I’d been so angry at Kaiba that I couldn’t think straight, and after that, it was a haze. Not a blank nothingness like in the past, but like life through a fog. I was dueling him—I’d felt it, seen it, experienced it—and yet, at the same time, I was somewhere far away. A world of endless staircases and doorways. Yellow brick, faded carvings. I could remember both. The strange world, the duel, both together in my senses.

And the person dueling wasn’t me. Not really. And yet it was.

I stared down into the hollow, golden eye at the center of the puzzle.

Was I going mad?


	2. Second Encounter

_Second Encounter:_

He expects the awareness to fade, but it doesn’t. This excites him. He is free to explore the world.

Though it is not much of a world.

He is in a tomb. Or rather, what he imagines a tomb would be like, according to the wealth of knowledge now poured into his mind. Though the knowledge is not his, he has adopted it, has searched it tirelessly for meaning, only some of which he can grasp. While he explores his surroundings, he also explores his mind, begins to understand the barest of facts that have appeared.

Somewhere amidst all the exploring, he realizes the memories that are not his belong to someone. A boy. Sometimes that knowledge is clear and begins to point him to an identity, a name, and then it slips through his fingers and he is left once more in barely understanding haze. The awareness is not yet complete. But at least it is there.

A sudden flash of fear. It rushes through the walls like a frigid wind and squeezes his chest. He is gasping for breath. The fear is not his. It is the boy’s.

The tomb’s carvings stir with black shadows. They are reaching for him with spiderweb hands, clinging to him, wrapping him in cold. For a moment, he is certain he does not want to follow these shadows. He can see through their black shapes to red skeletons of pain.

Then he forgets. The shadows have a kind of smile, a beckoning. He can see inside them to hidden power. He reaches for it, embraces it.

He is in a different world. It is like before—new surroundings, and people he doesn’t know. Behind him, four people are frozen, motionless and unblinking, distanced from him by dark fog. Ahead of him, one person is smiling. The shadows are in his smile. Half of his gaze is hidden. He waves his arms in wide, welcoming gestures, speaks in bright, friendly tones, but his heart is so dark it is visible through his chest.

To call this man dangerous is inaccurate. He is deadly. He is ruthless.

The game begins. The black-hearted man has started it. It is a black field, with black rules.

But this game still belongs to him. The power in the shadows bends to his will, the cards rush to his aid. A timer counts his breath, but he is unafraid. The boy has calmed as well. He can feel it—from the yellow pyramid around his neck emanates a quiet feeling. For some reason, he does not know what to call it.

The black-hearted man is cheating! No, he cannot be cheating—the shadows would swallow him alive. It is impossible to cheat in a dark game. And yet, he predicts the cards; he knows the strategies. He can see . . .

He looks at the hidden half of the black-hearted man’s gaze. A white curtain conceals some dark power. But what it is, he does not know.

No time. The clock is alive, the game is waning. He cannot lose. The black-hearted man’s abilities make no difference.

He attacks and attacks. A fierce fire rages in his nerves, lights his skin ablaze. The shadows around him are eager for a loss. It will not be his. His monsters are ready; the cards are eager. He has everything he needs to win.

Except time. The clock is out. He falls a mere fraction short.

Now the white curtain parts. An eye is revealed, but nothing of the natural world. He recoils from a hollow golden gaze. He has seen it before; it is on the pyramid around his neck.

Then a cry, from the grandfather that is his and not his. A cry of a name. It is not his. He does not have a name. A deep earthquake of loss fractures his skeleton, rends his senses.

Pain. It is the boy’s.

* * *

 

How did I get here? All I ever wanted in life was friends—people I could laugh with, could love. That’s all I wished for when I put together the puzzle. I didn’t want power or money or adventure. I certainly didn’t want danger, didn’t want the people around me hurt.

And yet Grandpa was gone. And it was my fault. The man on the video, Pegasus, was after me. I’d been in and out of it again. That same feeling of two places at once. It all flashed by. Shadows. Cards. The clock ticking ticking ticking. All of it swallowed in a flare of light. By the time I had a grip on things, Grandpa’s soul had been taken, and I was sobbing into a blank screen.


	3. Arrival

_Arrival:_

Tournament is a new word to him. It comes with a wealth of history he doesn’t understand, but he understands the principles. A match, a battle, a game. Opponents. Victory. Tournament is a new word he likes.

And one he excels at.

It is a frequent thing, now—leaving the ancient staircases and hallways behind for a world of fresh air and fresh experience, standing in the boy’s place and scattering shadows in the wake of his victories. Some opponents radiate hatred, others fear, and they all fall just the same.

One tries to take his strength, steals the cards that he used to win after his first awareness, tosses them to the ocean waves. But his strength is not in cards just as it is not in limbs. It is in a source unexplainable—the gold pyramid at his neck, the well in his soul, the breath in his lungs. As long as he stands, he is strong.

And with each new opponent, he stands. Words cannot lash him, poison cannot sear him, waves cannot consume him. He cannot lose.

* * *

 

Maybe I should have taken a different approach to the Duelist Kingdom tournament. Maybe I should have tried to sort out the new hazy experiences, the feeling of losing control of myself but witnessing it happen. Maybe I should have left the puzzle behind when I went after Grandpa.

But I was scared. Of course I was scared; Pegasus had taken my grandfather’s soul through a television screen. He’d thrashed me in a duel in Japan while never moving from his Industrial Illusions island in America. He’d read my own hand of cards to me as if the backs were transparent. As if _I_ were transparent. And before disappearing, he’d stared me down with that hollow eye, the same one that adorned the front of the puzzle Grandpa had gifted to me all those years ago.

So I took the puzzle. And I took the consequences. And I went after Pegasus on his terms, on his ground, but I brought my weapon. It was really the only hope I had.

And maybe I should have told someone. I hadn’t expected to have friends with me, but once Joey and Anzu and Tristan were there, maybe I should have turned to them, confided about those breathless moments when I faced a battle and my senses blurred, when I sometimes saw the opponent through two sets of eyes and sometimes only saw ancient staircases folding in on me.

But I couldn’t. So I didn’t. I didn’t tell them how much Pegasus scared me, and I didn’t tell them how much I scared myself. Instead, I let them slap me on the back for victories that were mine but also not mine. I let their curious questions about how I seemed different when I dueled slide by beneath another reminder that I was here for Grandpa, that Pegasus had Grandpa, that I had to find Grandpa.

Sometimes as we traveled across the island, I could swear I felt a gaze from the puzzle. I would remember Pegasus, and goose-bumps would raise the hair on my arms, and I would cover the puzzle’s eye with a hand. But somehow, I knew the gaze I sensed didn’t belong to Pegasus; I just didn’t know if that knowledge should be comforting or terrifying.

Maybe I should have taken a different approach to Duelist Kingdom, but all I knew was that when the haze came for a duel, I won. And against Pegasus, I needed to win.


	4. Interruption

_Interruption:_

He tries to add his own carvings to the wall, but he has nothing to carve with. He cannot leave a mark on this tomb he inhabits. He wonders where the marks came from if not from him. And if they are ancient, is he ancient too? But he cannot be ancient, not when he feels like a child stepping into the world, not when everything is new and growing, not when he has left no mark.

But, then again, the boy’s world is different from his tomb.

There is a new opponent. A child. The child wears a face covering, but he is outlined in white. White like dragons. He has seen it before.

The child calls for revenge, but he hears justice. The child calls for a battle, but he hears help. The child blames him for a brother’s fall, but he can see the blame dragging heavy from the child’s shoulders.

He accepts the child’s challenge. He feels the unease that is not his and pushes it gently aside. He is calm. He is certain.

In this world, perhaps he can make a mark. In this world, perhaps he has something to carve with.

At first, the child does not hear him. But he is patient. He places cards, defeats monsters in puffs of air that mean nothing. There is no heart on the field in this game, no heart in the attacks and barricades. Instead, there is a heart struggling and a heart soothing.

And he wasn’t sure until now that he had a heart, but there it is, surging strongly behind the pyramid around his neck. It carries light through his structure in a way he has never felt before, in a way that makes him a little more certain that the solid ground beneath his feet is real. That more in this world is his than just a game.

To this moment, he has always used the boy’s words, the boy’s appearance, the boy’s knowledge. Now he tests out his own. His tongue is abuzz with newness; the awareness is sharper than ever.

And now the child hears him. The cloaking blame begins to fade, raising the child’s shoulders, raising his eyes, raising his head. The white carves an upturned mark of hope on the child’s face.

The first evidence in the world that is his.

* * *

 

Each experience was a little different for me, but as time passed from that first experience with Kaiba, I noticed a pattern I couldn’t deny; the haze was getting clearer, crisper. What was at first a fog I could barely pull impressions from, soon became a light mist I could easily see through if I peered hard enough. And most of the time, I didn’t want to. But sometimes I took a peek.

When I did, I would see myself dueling. Only it wasn’t me. What had once been a blurred feeling of incompleteness had now become a distinct impression of separateness. Two versions of me, and one that was getting farther and farther away each time it reappeared.

The gaze from the puzzle had become almost constant. Sometimes I wondered if it might suddenly speak to me. I didn’t know what I would do if it did, but I wouldn’t be surprised.

Maybe I should have taken it as a warning; maybe I should have been more alarmed. But the more the feeling of distinctness grew, the more the haze cleared, the more the fear shrank back. The more I felt like myself.


	5. Shadows

_Shadows:_

Identity. Name. These words bother him in ways they never did before. His latest victory came amongst the shadows, against an enemy that also carried an empty eye. As he does. As the black-hearted man does.

But on the way to victory, the boy’s friends saw him. Saw _him_. Not as the boy, but as _not_ the boy. The quest to separate himself, to speak his own words and create his own actions—it hurts his mind. And it also hurts his heart, which beats stronger every minute.

The boy has a name. He knows it now: _Yuugi._ It is pleasant, as the boy is. It is soft and accepting, as the boy is. It is his identity.

The boy’s friends have names: _Joey, Anzu._ The opponents have names: _Bakura, Panik._

But he does not.

He searches for it, walks staircases through eternity and traces each wall carving he passes. The stone is at times smooth, at times jagged, but it does not speak to him. The carvings are shapes without meaning; his fingers find nothing hidden in their valleys and peaks.

He is without name, without identity. Lost in the reaches of his own soul.

* * *

 

I thought it would change things when they knew. It felt so freeing to say the words: _There’s another me. He comes from the puzzle when I duel._

And yet the duel with Bakura and the world of shadows and souls was written off by everyone as a dream. No one spoke to me after, no one asked me about the other me in the puzzle or the other Bakura in the ring. Even Bakura wouldn’t meet my eyes, wouldn’t cross the subject.

So in a place where I’d expected to find understanding, I’d found isolation.

Except for the spirit from the puzzle. The rustlings in the brush had become more frequent than ever, and I felt quick flashes of emotion often now, clips and hints at a life within an object. I tried talking to it once, feeling foolish, but no voice answered back. It was a strange thing to think he might be shy, but he’d said few words in the duel against Bakura as well.

There was only one moment when he’d responded. As my friends all looked to me for answers in Bakura’s death match, as we all stood as pieces on the board waiting to be sacrificed, I had told my friends to trust the other me.

And he’d looked right at me and smiled.


	6. Paradox

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's read this story and left kudos or comments! If you enjoy my work, please check out my other Yugioh story: Coming Home.

_Paradox:_

The maze of the world is growing easier to navigate now that he has discovered names. And yet it is not. Yuugi is determined, bright, open. Yuugi’s emotions often seep between the bricks of the staircased tomb, and they push back the darkness.

He cannot push back the darkness without a victory, but Yuugi can do it with a smile.

Bakura is an opponent. He fights from shadows; his teeth gleam as sharp as the daggers beneath his ring. Yet Bakura is a friend. He smiles as softly as Yuugi, though not with the same power. He leads them toward Pegasus, the black-hearted man, the true enemy.

And the more names he learns, the more confusion he finds:

_Para_ —a sharp-minded supporter who stares him down from the left side of a face.

_Dox_ —a sharp-tongued challenger who mocks him from the right side of a mouth.

Together they are not two, and separate they are not whole.

They place Joey at his side, and he does not know what to do. Joey is fearless, yet afraid. Joey is reckless, yet safe. Joey is strong, yet dependent.

And he does not yet know who he is. He does not have a name. He has ancient staircases and trading cards, and they do not an identity make.

But Joey smiles. Joey fights. And from the puzzle around his neck, he feels Yuugi’s trust. It is in Joey. But also in him. So he smiles, and he fights. And the maze opens to his vision, reveals its secrets and paths. The power of victory is in him. And it is in Joey. Together, they fight not as two.

And now the world leaves a mark on him.

=======

When I first put together the puzzle, I knew I wanted friends. But what I didn’t understand until later was that I wanted what friends bring. I thought I wanted friends so we could play games together, eat lunch together, study for exams (and possibly fail) together. But knowing you have true friends brings peace. Deep peace. Even in the middle of scary fights with multi-million dollar businessmen out for souls.

As I exited the underground maze and stared up at the entrance to Pegasus’s castle, armed with ten star chips and ready for the fight ahead, with my friends at my side and the puzzle around my neck, I felt peace.


	7. Losing

_Losing:_

The man who is no longer a shadow has returned—the man outlined in dragon white. Just as everyone else in this world, everyone who belongs, he has a name: _Kaiba._ The name begins with the hiss of a snake, ends with the low exhale of a beast. Kaiba is different than before, not just in outline.

He can see the black handprint on Kaiba’s shoulder.

The handprint squeezes, and Kaiba bears fangs. The handprint pinches, and Kaiba spits venom.

He knows that he must not accept this challenge, must not face this opponent. Through the castle walls, he can see the black-hearted man laughing, can see the wine he swallows like blood. And Kaiba laughs too. And the white outline shivers.

He cannot find a way around. Kaiba hisses and rattles at the castle entrance; the only way through is to put himself in striking distance. The handprint waves at him, crooks a finger, beckons him forward. Joey urges him to accept the challenge. Yuugi’s friends do not understand; they do not see. He feels sorrow from Yuugi, a haste to find the boy’s grandfather, to push past Kaiba to Pegasus.

He does not want to.

There is no other way.

The handprint gives him a thumbs up, pats Kaiba on the shoulder. Kaiba does not want a normal match. Kaiba has new methods, new technology. Once again, he finds himself on someone else’s field under someone else’s rules. And he must win.

The cards are cold under his fingers; he feels their fear, their warning. Or perhaps it is his own. He knows that no one who corners a cobra escapes unbitten.

And yet he must. This game, the quest for the grandfather that is not his—they are his only identity. Victory is his only hope against the darkness. If he stumbles, if he falls, he will be consumed. He knows this as he knows the shape of every carving on his walls.

So he sets the fear to wander amongst his staircases. The thought occurs to him that Kaiba may have a soul of staircases as well; he takes the empathy, sends it after the fear. Piece by piece, he locks away emotions, locks away names, locks away the things he has meticulously gathered in the boy’s world.

He is left with victory, looming on his horizon. And he knows what he has to do.

He crushes each obstacle before him.

Traps fail, monsters fall. His attack is relentless; his power is unstoppable. The forces against him crash like waves, and he stands firm as cliffs. The field bows to him, surrenders to his might, and he treads the tide beneath his feet.

Until he is face to face with the end.

The win is in his reach.

He has only to stretch out a hand.

The snake is curled against the castle wall, tail dangling over the edge. The black handprint is on its throat now, choking tight, digging black nails into dragon-white flesh.

He doesn’t care.

He cannot care.

He raises an arm toward victory.

* * *

 

I had been locked away inside the puzzle. I was a prisoner within my own soul. There was no haze now at all, no blurring of the lines between me and the other me. We were two distinct beings with distinct desires, and his quelled mine without an effort. I was a breath against a hurricane. All around me, the words echoed, roared _I cannot lose, I cannot lose._ It sliced through the bricks. The floor rocked beneath my feet.

What was this demon inside me? Who was this monster without a conscience that I’d unleashed? That I’d given my name, my identity, my fight for my grandfather?

Who was this beast I’d thought could be a friend?

I slammed my hands against the walls. They burned my skin, caught in the inferno of the heat all around me—that uncontrollable forest fire about to swallow Kaiba whole. I screamed a wordless sound that drowned beneath the _cannotlosecannotlosecannotlose._

As a shadow between the bricks, I saw Celtic Guardian charge at the melting dragon towering above him. His sword raised. If it fell, so would Ultimate Dragon.

But so would Kaiba.

And so would I.

“STOP ATTACK!” I bellowed. I didn’t direct my voice at the other me; I sent it straight to my swordsman. It was my body my life my monsters my fight my decision— _“STOP ATTACK!”_

A horrible wrenching sensation seemed to tear the spinal cord from my back, and I hit my knees. There wasn’t enough air in my lungs to give voice to the pain. Instead, tears poured down my cheeks. Cold seeped its way through my palms, cooling my blood, cooling my back. Through watery vision, I could barely make out the stones beneath me. Wider, blockier than just a moment before.

I was back. I was back. I’d forced out the other me.

But I’d also lost the duel.

I’d lost Grandpa.

The lifepoint counter scrolled to zero. Star chips jingled like bells as Kaiba scraped them from the ground. Joey shouted. Anzu defended. I barely took in a word.

The puzzle noosed around my neck dragged me down like an anchor. Not so long ago, I had locked each golden piece carefully into place, solving a mystery supposedly no one could. Now, the pieces in my mind clicked together just the same. All the vague memories and nightmares of blood, fire, darkness, fear. Real—they were all real.

I was the vessel of a demon.


	8. Aftermath

_Aftermath:_

He is wordless.

Still nameless.

Alone in an unchanging world.

And the shadows are coming for him.

* * *

 

I knew my friends were trying to reach me.

But I didn’t want to let anything in ever again.


	9. Reaching

****_Reaching:_

There is nowhere to hide among the staircases. He wishes he could melt into the wall, seep between the lines in the carvings and fade away. There is not much of him to fade, anyway. He has no memories of his own, no purpose of his own, no identity. He is not a person. Not really. Real people do not live in ancient tombs. Real people do not emerge in the world to snatch victory from a game and then fade away. Real people do not search in the dark, hungry for answers about themselves. Real people know the answers. They know themselves.

Shadows. They have found him.

He cannot push them back; he lost the game that was not a game. And he cannot hide.

So he turns.

The shadows rear from the darkness, crowd his vision, back him against the wall until his back is flat, his head is pinned, and there is no escape from the empty black eyes in laughing red skulls.

And now he remembers why he cannot lose.

He was awake before he was aware. He has always known this. And before his awareness, he was only a vessel of shadows. Shadows that drank blood and spat madness. In their eyes, he sees himself playing games that are not games. Not _his_ game. They do not involve the cards that speak to his heart, the monsters that seem so familiar. The rules of shadow games are as fluid as the shadows themselves; they shift to match each opponent and situation. He sees himself with a red skeleton and black eyes, mocking opponents, egging them on toward defeat. He sees himself licking his lips with a shadowed tongue, carefully threading writhing opponents on the hook that will spell their end, casting them to the darkness and waiting for it to bite. And with each loss, the shadows howl in delight, and so does he. He is eager to punish defeat. Sometimes the shadows demand the opponent’s mind, and sometimes it is . . . more.

He closes his eyes against the shadows. They shriek laughter.

He cannot escape; he knows this. The shadows call for him to return, to give in once more for the darkness. There is a soothing purr beneath the call, the promise of power he knows he can claim if he only accepts. The power is not a lie; he has felt it. He remembers it. But the cost is too steep.

But he knows someone more powerful than the shadows. If there is still a chance.

He has felt nothing from Yuugi since the duel with Kaiba. Perhaps Yuugi has cast the puzzle in the ocean with Exodia.

But perhaps not.

Perhaps Yuugi hates him for all that has happened. But perhaps not. Yuugi is compassionate; Yuugi is gentle.

Perhaps, even with everything, there is still a chance for him.

* * *

 

There was a question I couldn’t answer: If I never had the puzzle, would I have come to Duelist Kingdom?

I’d brought the puzzle because with it, I won. With the other me in charge, I won. It was never a question.

But now I was on my own. If it had been that way from the beginning, would I have ever made it past Weevil? Past Mako? If I’d managed that, I never would have survived Bakura. He’d stolen my soul and trapped it within the game. It had only been the other me who’d been able to save me and my friends. There was nothing I could have done, even if I had the world’s best cards, the world’s best strategies.

And there was that—I didn’t. I was relatively new to the game, and I loved it, but not enough to gamble Grandpa’s soul on my skills.

It was different for him. The other me pulled last-minute strategies I’d never imagined. He used a deck I’d assembled and made it seem like I’d never seen a single card. He’d almost saved Grandpa the first time with Pegasus. He’d carried me through Duelist Kingdom. He’d rescued our souls from Bakura, won Mai’s star chips back from the player killer, and solved the Paradox Brothers’ riddle to get us out of the underground maze. He was the reason I was standing at Pegasus’s castle.

I’d lost sight of all that after Kaiba. And it was true—the blood and nightmares from when I’d first pieced together the puzzle were real. But back then, every experience had been full of empty darkness. It didn’t feel like that now. I’d had no sense of the other me before. And once I’d understood and accepted his existence, just because I called him the other me, I’d expected him to _be_ me. I’d expected him to do what I wanted, to be who I wanted, and I was horrified when he made decisions with Kaiba that I never would have, but I never gave him credit for the decisions he made better than me—with Bakura, with Panik, with Pegasus.

I’d wanted him to be the better me, to carry me through Duelist Kingdom without a hitch and win my grandpa’s soul back.

Because I was afraid I couldn’t.

But if he was never there. If I never had the puzzle. If Pegasus still came. Would I have been brave enough for Duelist Kingdom? Would I still have come and fought my hardest for my grandpa even if it was just me?

Because that’s what Kaiba did. He came to save his brother. And he fought his way through everything by himself. He gambled his life because saving his brother was all or nothing for him, and he didn’t have another himself to push the responsibility onto, another himself to step up if his courage or skills weren’t good enough.

They weren’t. He lost. And then Pegasus had Grandpa, Mokuba, and Kaiba. Three people I couldn’t leave without.

I was more terrified than ever.

But I’d learned.

And I was different.

Any skills I had were not good enough to beat Pegasus. I was almost certain of that, and it made my soul tremble. The next face on a card in Pegasus’s hand could be mine. But I couldn’t walk away. I had to give it my all, even if my all wasn’t as good as the other me’s. I had to be my own person. And whoever it was in the puzzle, I had to let him be his own person as well.

If I wanted his help, I couldn’t expect him to be a better me. I had to hope we could help each other as two different people. As partners.


	10. Destination

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone reading this story. If you're enjoying it, check out my other Yugioh stories. It's pretty much all I write, haha.

_Destination:_

Yuugi has saved him from defeat, but that does not mean he can afford to lose again. His new chance is paper-thin; he knows this. The black-hearted man is once more his opponent. This time with no clock. This time a match to the death.

His surging heart tells him it would be a shame to lose this life when he has just barely begun to understand it. Even if he walks in tombs. Even if he is without name. There is still a slice of this life that is his, and he will fight for it as strongly as he will fight for Yuugi’s grandfather. One additional promise drives him as well—the promise to Mokuba. The first mark in this world that was his.

This time his fear of losing comes from more than the shadows. It comes from the boy outlined in dragon-white who smiled at him when he said he could help. It comes from the boy who drove back the shadows and extended him a second chance. There are people counting on him now. Not on Yuugi. On _him._

But Pegasus giggles after every move, tickled senseless by his black heart and omniscient eye. Pegasus announces each facedown card, each new draw, like a child naming a toy soldier before shooting it off a ledge. Pegasus is drunk, but not on wine. Pegasus is drunk on fear.

He has never felt fear like this. For the first time, he is realizing this game cannot possibly be his when he is staring down its creator. Pegasus painted each card with twisted love, named them like children, and sent them off in foil backpacks to find parents. What right does he have to stand on this field and declare his upcoming victory against a man who knows and sees all? The dirt may as well declare its victory against God.

He wonders if it is even possible for him to win.

NO, Pegasus says to each glimmer of hope.

NO, Pegasus says to each spark of desire.

NO, Pegasus says until he feels it in every corner of his soul. His eyes burn in a way they never have before. The field before him is blurred, distant. He is an insect, barely a speck on this world, and Pegasus rises like the shadows and stomps and stomps until his mind fractures and his soul shrinks.

And then a different voice speaks.

_Together,_ Yuugi says. _Let’s fight together._

And it gives him pause.

It makes him think.

It lifts his eyes.

_I won’t abandon my friends,_ Yuugi says. And Yuugi isn’t speaking only of the people Pegasus has taken.

Friend isn’t a name, not really, but it is an identity. And it’s his.

* * *

 

It was a desperate plan. I knew that. There was no guarantee it would work. But I’d come to fight, and it was the best idea I had.

Switching minds made things real in a way they never had been before. Standing face to face with the other me in a chamber of my heart made me realize just how different we were.

And it was okay.

I left the overall strategies to him. I trusted him to it. I snuck onto the field quickly to draw and place whatever cards I could before retreating to the puzzle, where Pegasus couldn’t read my mind.

And it was working.

Pegasus yelled and blustered. He made threats, but for the first time since he’d taken Grandpa’s soul, he didn’t have the upper hand. He didn’t have the power. We’d leveled the playing field. The other me and I had leveled it together.

Until Pegasus tipped it back.

The world around me went black, and something cold whispered in my mind.

_Yuugi, get out_ , the other me said, and I could hear his worry, feel his fear.

SHADOW GAME, Pegasus said. I’d heard the term once before, in Bakura’s death match. But I’d been a piece back then, not a player. As a player, the shadows dragged at me with heavy fingers. I thought I saw faces in the darkness, laughing, mocking. I didn’t belong here, and the shadows knew it.

But I smiled, and I drew a card. Even though my knees quivered and my fingers trembled. Even though the darkness pressed my throat tight and my lungs tighter, and I couldn’t catch my breath no matter how hard I gasped.

_Yuugi, it will swallow you._

_I won’t abandon you,_ I said. It was my family on the line, my friends. I couldn’t leave it all to him and cower in the puzzle. Not again.

_Yuugi, I couldn’t bear it._

And for the first time, I understood. I understood why he’d fought so hard, why he’d risked it all for a fight that wasn’t his.

When I’d delicately snapped each piece of the Millennium Puzzle together, I’d done so with a hope, with a wish. But I wasn’t the only one longing for a friend. He’d been trapped in the darkness for so long with no one. What must it have been like for him the first time he stepped into my life, the first time I needed help, and he gave me his? It must have been something like standing in front of Joey and Tristan, facing down a bully with no idea how things would turn out, but just a hope. Just a wish.

_Win,_ I said. With all the effort I had left, I placed my card facedown. _You can win. I believe in you._


End file.
